Why I Shouldn't Be Allowed To Grocery Shop
It’s a blustery Sunday morning and I just got back from walking two miles to the grocery store. I love walking because I get to calm my brain without the pressure of parking or hitting people on bikes. I meander the aisles in the grocery store slowly and then I call my hubby and he comes and picks me up. After this morning, though, I’m thinking maybe I shouldn’t be allowed to shop. Or if I do, maybe I should just keep my mouth shut.
First, I looked at Benadryl. I wanted kids’ size, and in a pill form. I read that if you go on a flight and give your kids Benadryl they’ll sleep the whole way. Then after I couldn’t find it, I rationalized that drugging the kids to get them to sleep on the flight may not be the best parenting. A BETTER parenting strategy is for me to call my doctor, get a prescription for a couple of Valium, and then Mommy can be relaxed and gentle and well-adjusted all the way to Disney.
I found an end-cap display of single serving bottles of wine. I got twelve. I rationalized this because they’re great for cooking and then I can use the crap wine in the food instead of my good wine. Plus, when I open my GOOD wine, I end up drinking it all. Not all at once, I’m not like guzzling it. I drink one glass a day. If it were the fifties, I’d have two martinis, a Valium, a glass of sherry, a pack of smokes, and then one glass of wine. This is progress then.
Since I got all the wine, I texted hubby to come inside and get me. I forgot my license and while I wasn’t wearing makeup and probably looked like I was pushing menopause, I didn’t want to get carded and then have to go “Come on. Really? Do you see how far my boobs hang? These are not twenty-year-old boobs” to the cashier. I didn’t want to put either one of us through that.
Kealoha (hubby) came to get me. I handed him his mocha and sipped on my cappuccino from Starbucks, which I paid for with my credit card but then couldn’t leave a tip because I’d forgotten my wallet along with my license.
In the checkout lane, a giant helium dinosaur ass bobbed in my face. “What the…?” I exclaimed. And then I saw a stack of round papers that were for sale for $1. They were signs to Save Our Herpes. “What? They’ve got a ribbon for everything! Who wants to save herpes?” I cried. I couldn’t believe it.
Kealoha looked at the sign I was pointing at. “Heroes. It says Save Our Heroes.”
Oh. Guess I should’ve worn my glasses.
Then the cashier asked if we were doing anything else exciting for the weekend. “This is it,” I said, nodding to the cupcake mix and twelve mini bottles of wine.
“No football games or anything?”
“God, no. We don’t believe in that sort of thing.”
The cashier’s face flushed red, either because of the herpes or my being a football-atheist.
Kealoha grabbed the bags and while he put them in the back of the car, I crawled into the passenger seat and smiled, content with the world. Still, I probably shouldn’t be allowed to shop unsupervised.
I Promised I Wouldn't Whine...
Wait. What? WHAT? I went almost a whole month without a blog? What is going on here? What kind of insanity is this? Is this another dimension? Is this another dimension where people wear shiny unitards and talk into their watches? No. All is well. All is very steady and well and slightly boring. I also made a promise to myself to stop whining so much and, uh, you can see the effect of that on the blog…or lack thereof. I mean, I THOUGHT of plenty of topics. I wanted to whine about trying to lose weight and seeing a dietician, and the new yoga classes I’m taking, and trying to cook healthy foods like quinoa and hating it…but in all those blogs, I just sound sorta douchey.
Then I wanted to blog about being rejected for the seventy-sixth time for my memoir and be all “What? My childhood isn’t painful or interesting enough for you?” and “Why are all the agents mutherfuckers!” and “Why won’t someone just give me a CHANCE?” But that just made me want to punch myself in the face.
Then I thought of blogging about everyday issues with the kids, and why bread makes me feel bloaty, and the trouble I’m having with this new book I wrote. It’s great. I love it. But it’s only 20,000 words and if I want to be published ‘for real’, like a ‘real’ girl and not Pinocchio (aka self-publishing), then I need to add 60,000 words to it. And. I. Don’t. Want. To.
See, though? See? Even my blog about not whining has turned into a massive whine of the old SNL skit Pat variety!
In short, I’ve lost the focus or point of this blog. I don’t like pushing my fiction because I feel like a bully when I do it. And I don’t like writing too much about narrating, because I don’t want to get in trouble for saying too much or not enough. And I don’t want to whine. And I don’t want to be a dink. And I just want everyone to get along and be happy.
So. Ehm. Maybe it’s time to revamp my Dip Blog. Maybe I should put all my angst into THAT. MMmmm. Angst Dip. Good with gluten-free crackers.
If you have any input here, let me know. Why do you read this blog? Do you like train-wreck Tanya, or slightly-mal-adjusted-Tanya, or bloated-Tanya the best?
I’m trying to figure everything out. It’s making me tired. But I’m not WHINING. I’m really not. That high-pitched sound is just a mother fucking LEAF BLOWER.
Ahem.
I mean, amen.
New Audiobooks, New Perspective, Same Desire For Potato Chips
I've been lax with the blog, but for a very good reason. I wish the very good reason was that I was too busy watching Netflix while eating potato chips, but the actual reason is I've been working. Working on writing, on narrating, on producing audiobooks, and working on getting healthy and having a kinder perspective on life in general. The last one included a session with a nutritionist where a dude with Hobbit bare feet welcomed me to the office and then I broke down in tears in the nutritionist's office and moaned "How many rice cakes do I have to eat before I start to lose weight?" But that's another story. For now, here are some of the crazy projects I've been working on and producing. If you need a new listen or you want to get your grandmother an audiobook where two to four cowboys play 'horsey' in a barn...
I can't even finish that last sentence. I just can't. Deeeeep breaths.
Here are some of my projects:
1) "Foodies Rush In", narrated by Kate Rudd, written by Tanya Eby. GENRE: Contemporary Romance.
This time I went with a new narrator to see how my words worked when someone else read them. Kate gives heart and warmth to this sweet little love story. Rated PG-13, maybe R if you don't like some swearing. Click on the picture to go to Audible:
2) "Two to Mango", narrated by Tanya Eby, written by Jill Marie Landis. GENRE: Comedic Mystery.
I loved this book. It's book 2 in a series and is a delightful mystery set in Hawaii. Rated PG. The 1st book "Mai Tai One On" is also available. Funny, quirky characters.
3) "Briar's Cowboys: Daly Way Series Book 5", narrated by Tatiana Sokolov, written by Brynn Paulin. GENRE: Erotica.
Tatiana is my evil twin who narrates erotica titles so that I don't give heart attacks to listeners who are expecting, well, less hotness. This one is super hot. Certainly an R rating and one you should listen to in the privacy of your home, or maybe with a partner, or, uh, more. There are cowboys and sultry scenes AND an actual storyline and real characters.
Those are just a few projects I've been working on. Plus, I finished the 1st draft of a new novel that's action packed and mind bending. More on that, and some other stories from my awkward life, to come. Until then, happy listening. Be good to yourself.
How To Freak Out Your Kids And Make Them Happy AT THE SAME TIME
Yesterday, I picked up the kids (Franz and Moxie) and their stepsister (Lilly) at school and drove them home. I blame my sudden inspiration on Stephen King and "Christine". I've been reading a lot of his work lately, and it's got me all twisted.
Here is what happened during that drive.
ME: Weird.
FRANZ: What?
ME: I was supposed to turn there but I didn’t.
MOXIE: Why didn’t you?
ME: I don’t know. I feel like the car doesn’t want to go home. It wants…
MOXIE: What’s it want, Ma?
ME: It wants me to go foreward. It’s like there’s a giant magnet and I’m being pulled.
LILLY: Whoa.
ME: I know. Oh! Wait. It wants…
FRANZ: Mom…come on. I don’t like this.
ME: It wants me to go down this street.
MOXIE: This isn’t the way home!
ME: Nope. It’s okay though. Don’t freak out. I feel like this is okay. Like I’m putting on my blinker now because I feel like I should turn here.
FRANZ: Ma, I’m freaking out here.
ME: Nope. Don’t freak. I feel like…yes. Yes! The car wants to park!
LILLY: Whoa.
ME: Okay then. We’ll park. And then…I feel like…
FRANZ: What, Ma? What’s HAPPENING?
ME: I feel like we should park here and then walk across the street and get ice cream at Jersey Junction.
(Pause. Pause.)
LILLY: Oh, I get it! You were messing with us! The car didn’t want anything.
MOXIE: Mommy! Come on!
FRANZ: You totally freaked me out.
ME: I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I just…you got to admit…that was kinda cool.
FRANZ: Kinda.
ME: And now you get ice cream.
FRANZ: Fine okay. Just don’t do that again.
MOXIE: Like EVER. Don’t ever do that again, Mommy.
ME: Okay. Fine. Sheesh.
What Happens When I Try To Sign Up For Yoga
After years of wearing yoga pants, I thought it was time to finally take a yoga class. A friend and I walk around Reed’s Lake (4.5 miles) every weekend, but the winds are a blowing and winter is coming. A nice, relaxing yoga class indoors sounded perfect. Plus, I can be a teeny, tiny bit high strung, so finding my Zen might be really nice. I called to sign up. Here is the conversation:
ME: So, I’m looking for an intro-level yoga class either on Saturday or Sunday that me and a friend could take. Do you have anything like that?
RELAXD YOGA MAN (or REYMA): Sure!
ME: Uhhhh…
REYMA: We have one on Saturdays at 9 AM.
ME: Okay. Sure. Okay. Sounds good. How do I sign up?
REYMA: Oh, there’s no need for that. Just stop on by and you can join the class. It’s for all levels.
ME: But what if it’s full?
REYMA: We’ll work you in. No worries.
ME: No. But wait. What if…like…the class is FULL. Shouldn’t I, like, sign up to make sure it’s not full? I don’t want it to be full and be all ready to do yoga and then have you tell me I can’t do it.
REYMA: No worries. It’ll be fine. You can just stop on by. Or not. Whatever. However you want to work it.
ME: Well, I want to sign up for the yoga class and I’ll plan on being there next Saturday at 9AM with my friend.
REYMA: Sure. Maybe we’ll see you then.
ME: No. No! Uhm, no. It’s on my calendar. I’ll be there. I’m signed up. This is me, signing me up.
(Pause. Sound of the guy doing deep breathing techniques.) ME: Okay. Thanks. See you then. Thanks.
I think this dialogue pretty much shows why I need to take a yoga class and why I’m probably going to be really horrible at it. I just felt like...you know...there are RULES, and you have to follow rules. Plus there was that one time when I was seven or eight and got up to the movie theater to get the tickets to see The Muppet Movie and they sold out. The kid right before me got the last ticket. And I just don't want to feel that way again.
I wish I could take a yoga class with the Muppets. *sigh*
Conversation With My Husband While His Hand Is On My Thigh
It was nighttime. By night time, I mean just shy of 9PM, and Kealoha and I crawled into bed. I’d say we were spooning, but we’re solid people, so we were ladle-ing. He curled around me and put his hand on my thigh, just beyond the line of my shorts. Here is our conversation:
ME: Aw, now, dammit!
K: What?
ME: I shaved my legs tonight. I tell you, I did!
K: Really? Uh….
ME: I just, okay, I missed that one place. That one place where your hand is right now. I swear to god. See? Move your hand here. SEE! Smooth! SMOOTH!
K: But…how did you miss this one spot? Everything else is smooth except for here?
ME: I don’t know. I’m Nordic. My hair is invisible. I have shaving issues. What’s important here is why does your hand automatically zero in on like the one place I don’t want it to go?
K: Maybe that little patch is like the Bermuda Triangle or something.
ME: Oh, sheesh. Now I have to worry about my leg hair causing plane crashes. I can’t even talk about it. I’ll shave it tomorrow. It’s exhausting being a woman.
I quietly obsessed about causing plane crashes and shipwrecks with the gravitational pull of my leg hair. Then Kealoha kissed my shoulder, told me to sleep well, and eventually…I did.
Giveaway and Interview on AudioGals
If you're looking for a new post from me, sorry. I've been so busy staring into empty corners and eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, I haven't had a chance to blog! Okay. You got me. That's an excuse. I've been working. A lot. And also using my blogging-energy to put into the new book I'm working on. I figure I'll finish it in November, and return to regularly blogging then.
Until then...here's an interview that Audio Gals did with me. They also have a giveaway going on. I'm not sure how long, so check it out soon. If you don't want to read the whole interview, scroll down to enter the contest. Good luck!
Here's the link:
They're giving away a copy of "Run To You" by Rachel Gibson:
Blogs I Wanted To Write But Haven't Gotten Around To
I've been pretty overwhelming busy and also working on my memoir and new piece of fiction. Here, then, are the blogs I wanted to write, but haven't gotten around to. I just have the titles. You can imagine the actual blog posts:
Conversation With My Husband While His Hand Is On My Thigh
Why Is My Hair Burgundy
That Time When I Dropped My Taco Salad And Cried
When I Lived In Detroit And Everyone At Kroger Thought I Was Deaf
I Think I’m Becoming A Stout Hunchback and All I Need Is A Bell To Ring
The Truth About Narrating Erotica
I’ve been lucky to narrate all sorts of things in my career, and I thought I’d pull back the curtain on what it’s like to narrate erotica.
I drink a scotch, put on a bustier and tiny silk panties, pull on my garters and stockings and then I…
Are you kidding? I’m wearing a stained t-shirt, yoga pants, and no makeup! I do this because it’s A) comfortable and B) the characters are so attractive that I don’t feel like I have to be.
At the first sex scene, I think “Oh, okay. That’s hot. Wow. Sure. Okay.”
At the second scene, I think, “Wow. They have a lot of energy. And appetite. I don’t have an appetite like that. Maybe I need to take a pill or something. Okay. Here we go…”
By the third, I think, “Don’t these people have jobs? Don’t they have stuff to do? Who’s buying groceries? How can she bend over like that without taking an Advil?”
By the fourth, I think, “Oh come on! You’re being teenagers! Do something productive like watch Newsroom and eat popcorn with your man-hunk. That’s what I’d do!”
Actually, now that I think about it, this is pretty much my thought process for narrating in general. I love storytelling in all its forms; I really do. But every once in a while, I am exhausted by characters’ boundless energy and superhuman abilities. Or...this is a possibility...maybe I’m a little bit jealous.
New Commandments for Modern Living
Weird thing, but last night, I went outside and there was a crack of thunder and then from the heavens dropped a tablet! Not a stone tablet; that’s old school, but, like, an actual tablet. An iPad to be exact. (Thank you, heavens. Now I can play Candy Crush.) On said tablet was the following. New Commandments! They just fell into my lap! So weird. I’m sharing them now with you because I’m like a prophet or whatever. Also, because if I share them, someone up in the clouds promised me a donut, even though I’m gluten free now.
THE NEW COMMANDMENTS FOR MODERN LIVING
1) Don’t hurt people. 2) Don’t be a dick. 3) Use your turn signal. 4) Drink responsibly and don’t do harmful drugs. * 5) Stop posting mean comments on the Internet. (see #1 and #2) 6) Try to change your mind before you try to change someone else. 7) Love someone who makes you laugh. 8) Eat mindfully and with gratitude. 9) Dream and then take action towards those dreams. 10) Tip 20%. 11) Give random high-fives. 12) Dance. Especially if you have no rhythm.
* Drugs that are delivered via a needle ARE HARMFUL.
Then I asked the heavens if they could also drop down a charger because the iPad was out of juice, but the only thing that dropped down was a cricket. Can't have everything I guess.
I'll go get my donut now.
A Gripping Conversation to Rival Dialogue in Newsroom
We’ve been watching "The Newsroom" and I sat there and I thought, “I’m not quite smart enough for this show” and “These characters have the best dialogue exchanges ever. Does anyone really talk like this?” Then I thought what would life be like if Kealoha and I had rapid-fire conversations that twisted and turned and then slapped you in the face. (After all of this thinking, I had to ask Kealoha to go back a minute in Newsroom so I could re-watch where I’d drifted.)
On Thursday, I made Kealoha walk with me around Reed’s Lake. It’s a 4.5-mile walk and I knew we’d have great conversations, and possibly dialogue sequences that would rival the smart characters on Newsroom, West Wing, and, heck, even NPR!
Errr……
Not so much.
Kealoha sang snatches of “Under Pressure”. He said it should be our ‘thing’, the couple thing that we do at parties in front of people. He said I could be Freddie Mercury, but then he sang all the Freddie Mercury parts and I told him maybe he should do the duet by himself.
Then we talked about having a Taco dinner night and I said I didn’t want to smell like a taco and then we both giggled because I repeated, “I smell like taco”.
Our heart to heart rapid-fire conversation continued when we discussed the millionaire who moved his mansion two hundred feet so he could break the property up into three portions and sell it. I said “He’s smart”, and Kealoha answered with the bee-doh-bee-dohm part of the “Under Pressure” song.
At the end of our walk, mile 4.2, a group of running boys came right at us. High schoolers or college-age kids, running, without shirts, all washboard stomachs and testosterone. I said “Uh…” and pulled over to a driveway to check my phone so I wouldn’t notice shirtless boys. NOT APPROPRIATE. “They can run around me. I’m not moving,” Kealoha said, and walked straight into the River of Boy. I checked frantically for emails.
When the thudding feet and panting breaths passed, Kealoha looked at me. “Did you see that?” he asked, vaguely excited.
“See what? I was checking important messages.” I could not admit I was purposefully not-seeing half-naked man-boys running.
“That guy held out his hand to high-five me and I high-fived him!”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “You did not just have a random high-five with a stranger. Those things don’t happen in the wild.”
“I did! I did it! He held out his hand like this and I high-fived it! I high-fived a stranger!”
I was mad that I missed this high-five miracle. “If that really happened, if you really had a random high-five in the wild, then you know what that means.”
Kealoha looked down at me. (He’s taller than me.) “What?”
“It means you have to make a wish.”
He didn’t even pause. “I wish for more high-fives.”
“That’s against the rules,” I said as we continued walking. Then we stopped at D&W and got stuff to make stir-fry and Kealoha sang more of Freddie Mercury’s lines that were supposed to be mine.
Well, I guess there’s a reason that I don’t write to television, although I think our dialogue is just gripping and filled with drama. Aaron Sorkin, feel free to give me a call.
WTF I've Been Up To
I promised myself I would try to stop posting whiny woe-is-me blogs. In fact, I did post one last week, but then I pulled it. I forget sometimes that my blog shouldn’t be a dumping ground. No one wants to hear me sit in a corner and complain…unless I’m complaining while drinking a bottle of wine, then even I admit I can be humorous. It’s all the drooling that makes it funny. So here’s what’s happening and why my blog might be a little more sporadic for a while:
1) I had a tooth emergency and some ‘oral surgery’. It sucked. But the plus side is I got a whole day off to watch TV. I mean, that’s all I did. I sprawled on the couch (upright, cuz I couldn’t lie down) and moaned and groaned and watched True Blood, Orange Is The New Black, Nigella Lawson, MasterChef, and Newsroom. All. Day. Long. It was so glorious that angels sang! (Or it was taking me a while to come down from the laughing gas at the dentist.)
2) I had an excerpt from my memoir accepted for publication. I need exclamation marks for that. Here: !!!!! The excerpt called “The Friendship Camp” will be published in the fall literary journal of Midwestern Gothic. I was so excited when I found out that I whooped and then I said ow and then I whooped again. And then I said ow. It was a vicious cycle for a bit.
3) I’ve joined a writer’s group. Two, actually. One online and one I’ll meet with in person every week. The groups are forcing me to work on my next novel and I’m 15 pages in. Not much, but it’s a start.
4) I’ve been gluten free for two weeks. It’s not as annoying as I thought. I’m now addicted to polenta, which is okay, because I can only eat soft food. And my food-belly seems to be a little smaller.
5) I’m ready to send the kids back to school. I’ve become the ultimate lazy parent, and I’m pretty sure I’m not alone. I mean, there’s only so many crafts, outings, and ‘adventures’ a parent can realistically have before saying “Aw, fuck it!” Now when the kids ask if they can do experiments with the toaster and a fork I say, “Sure” and then “Call me if anyone’s bleeding” and then I go back to playing BananaKing on my iPad. School better start soon or the kiddos will be building a homemade methlab to earn money for Legos.
6) For the last two days, I’ve been talking like I’m wearing those cheap, plastic vampire fangs. This morning, I did a recording, and I sounded just fine. My mouth is good. My voice is good. And my jaw only hurts when I open really wide, so I have stopped opening my jaw really wide. (There’s a joke in there about Kealoha, but I will not stoop to that. It’s simply TMI.)
7) All is well.
So, look for my blog periodically. I’ll try to post only important stuff like, you know, things about chafing and when we go to Applebee’s and my upcoming trip with Kealoha to a tiki bar in Chicago. You know, stuff that matters.
But if you really, really miss me, check out one of my books that you haven’t read, or force your friends to read one. And stay tuned. We’ll be releasing some free stories soon, and “Foodies Rush In” will be released as an audiobook in October narrated by the fabulous, Audie-award-winning Kate Rudd.
Happy, happy, me.
(I mean that sincerely. The laughing gas has totally worn off now.)
Hello, Panic Attack AKA Thar She Blows!
If you ever have panic attacks, you know that they can sorta build up. It’s like a snowball rolling down a hill. At first, it’s a wee little ball and then it gets bigger and bigger and so mammoth that it runs over unsuspecting trees, skiers, and picnic tables. You can’t unroll a snowball going downhill; you just wait for it to go over a cliff and be done already. A panic attack feels sorta like that, only when it’s building, the snowball is rolling UPHILL. It takes a force of energy and circumstances, but something pushes that f’ing snowball up the hill until…well, I’m sure the metaphor goes somewhere, but I’m too stressed to figure it out.
Anyway.
I’ve been waiting for about a week for this panic attack to hit, and it finally did. Actually, it didn’t HIT. It CRACKED. Right in the parking lot of the studio where I was due to narrate.
I actually heard the crack because it resonated from inside my mouth while I was chewing a piece of gum. One chew of the gum and I heard it: crrrrak. And then there was a bite of pain. And I knew. Panic Attack was mammoth and ready to fly off the cliff, with thanks to Cracked Molar.
A cracked molar. Big deal, right? I mean, it HAPPENS. But here’s what happened in my brain:
1. I have a cracked molar. I’m terrified of dentists. They’re going to do a root canal. It’s going to cost thousands of dollars.
2. Kealoha hasn’t been able to find a job for 8 months, and I support the family via narrating. If there’s something wrong with my mouth and I can’t narrate, we don’t get income, and it’s all my fault. This is all my fault.
3. I have to get my shit together and go in and narrate and finish this book. If I cancel this book or leave, they won’t hire me again. And they’ve got to hire me again. Don’t think about my tooth, or the pain. Don’t let anyone know. This is all my fault.
4. I’m terrified of dentists.
And then I just started crying. All the pressure and stress I’ve been carrying around for weeks released in a gush of tears. How scared I am of being the soul income for the house, how in freelance you can never say no to a project even if you want to take a little vacation up north to relax, how my job doesn’t offer insurance so I joined SAG/AFTRA to get insurance but the companies I work for don’t pay SAG/AFTRA wages so still no insurance, how any time I get sick or need a break, it means I don’t make income. How we need a new roof, and I want to take the kids to Disney, and I’d love to have a pretty kitchen that’s big and sparkly, but everything comes out of my paycheck. Everything. How I’d like to stay home with the kids more but I have to work and I can never say no.
And now a cracked tooth.
See? It’s not just a cracked tooth. It’s a panic attack.
My director sent me home. I’m going to the dentist. I have money in the bank to cover this, and the company assured me we could reschedule today’s narration. And Kealoha will eventually find a job that he loves and eventually I won’t have to carry the household and be terrified of getting a cough or losing my voice.
I just need to breathe.
I also need a gin&tonic, but I’ll wait until after the dentist. Or maybe just before. Yeah. Just before I go to the dentist, I’ll drink that gin&tonic. I’ve earned it.
When Your Heart Went Boom
I was searching through my old documents for a novel I abandoned. The characters still talk to me, and I'm disappointed that I haven't been able to write the novel for them that I think they deserve. I'm trying to decide whether to commit to this YA Suspense title, or return to this little abandoned novel. So, that's what I was doing when I found an old file of stories and monologues I've written over the years and have never done anything with. Some are pretty bad, of course, but this one still makes me laugh. And there are some lines in it that I like. Mostly, I like this Julie character and I hope that she found a man to make her as happy as I am with Kealoha. Here, then is that old monologue, from my younger self:
When Your Heart Went Boom by Tanya Eby
My Dearest Victor,
As dates go, on a scale of one to five, you were definitely a three and well on your way to a four. I was telling some joke, something about a fireman and a priest and a hose, not a great joke, not hysterical, but you were laughing and while I was telling it and feeling charming…I thought…just for a moment…how life might be with you if we happened. If it happened. If love happened between you and I.
And then, suddenly, you clutched your heart and stopped laughing and I looked in your eyes that were remarkably blue and I thought you sensed it too. This kismet. This cosmic connection, and that’s when, very clearly, the date was turning from a three to a four, on a scale of one to five. I smiled and you looked like you were smiling, or maybe that was just the muscles in your face tensing because then you passed out and then, you know, you passed on.
There was a bit of commotion at first, but don’t be embarrassed. I helped them sit you up and I wiped the chive butter from your forehead and then loosened your tie. It would have been one of those sweet, tender moments that happen when two people just start dating and realize there’s something more going on beneath the surface. It would have been one of those moments, us staring into each other’s eyes, if it hadn’t been for your dying and all. I thought, for a moment, that there was still a chance. I thought about it especially when our waiter (his name was Pedro and did you know he was pre-med? How lucky!) ripped open your shirt and started pumping on your chest and breathing in your mouth. I thought there still might be a chance for us and how terrific a story it would make at our wedding.
Your best man, Bob, would raise his glass to us and tell our friends that when we met on our blind date, you fell instantly in love with me and it happened so fast and so hard that your heart exploded. And everyone would laugh then and tink their glasses with their forks so that we would kiss. And we would kiss. Long and slow and with real love, so much love I would feel it in my belly, in my toes, this love of wanting you. Then I would wipe the chive butter from your forehead because all good things in life come round full circle.
But that didn’t happen because somewhere in the middle of my joke, you stopped. You just, stopped. And sometimes, mostly at night, right before I fall asleep, I see Pedro shaking his head and I see you on that burgundy carpet with your shirt open, and I see the open napkin on the floor next to you, and the roll you dropped when your heart went boom. It’s the roll I think about mostly, though you did have a magnificent chest, with just the right amount of hair, but it’s the roll I think about. There was a bite out of it. The last thing to touch your lips was a hard sourdough roll and to tell you the truth, no life should have to end like that.
I was sad to see you go, and, well, a little embarrassed. I didn’t even know your last name. All those emails and photos we sent each other, the phone calls we made, all the planning of finally meeting and when and where and how soon, and I never did catch your last name.
I thought about writing a note to your parents, but how would I find them? You said they were in their seventies and lived in Florida and I thought of going to Florida with your picture but, to tell you the truth, most of the people in Florida are in their seventies so how could I ever find them? I wouldn’t really know what to tell your parents anyway. I could say it was quick and painless (though I think there was some pain), but what’s it matter? I would like to tell them that the last thing you did (besides eat that roll) was laugh, and when I think about life and fate and how everything happens for a reason…I think maybe the whole reason I met you was to tell you that dumb joke about the fireman and the priest and the hose.
I was there with you in your final moment and you were laughing at something I told you and you clutched your heart and we looked at each other and when we looked at each other, my soul reached out to yours and wrapped around your heart too so that you were also, by extension, holding onto the tender part of me.
The more I think about that date, before your dying and all, the more I think it was a four on its way to a five. I’m sure it would have ended as a five. Maybe that night was on its way to being the best night of my life because maybe, just maybe, you were the one and destiny finally brought us together.
Destiny was late, true, and it was the shortest relationship I’ve ever had (we didn’t even make it through the first course), but I want you to know that I’ll never forget that night. We shared something most couples never do. We shared a moment so deep your eyes sparked blue with life.
Thank you for that, at the very least.
All my love,
Julie
Moxie and the Case of the Missing Underwear
Sometimes, as a mom, you have to become a detective, questioning your child boldly, using techniques that would rival any interrogation scene in Castle or Law & Order. Here is where I demonstrate those skills.
July 30, 9:03PM
CHARACTERS:
Moxie: 7 year-old, blonde girl, wiggles a lot, loves fairies and animals, wants a hedgehog for a pet, hates pants.
Me: 40 year-old, multi-colored hair woman, too tired to wiggle, loves cooking and cats, has a stuffed buffalo next to her bed, hates pants.
SCENE: ME, in bed, about to fall asleep. Sound of footsteps. MOXIE approaches bed, wearing a nightgown with Jurassic-sized flowers on it.
MOXIE: Can I cuddle with you?
ME: Okay. Just for a little bit.
MOXIE: I just want to warn you, though, that I’m not wearing any underwear.
ME: Uh, okay. What happened?
MOXIE: They fell off.
ME: Your underwear fell off.
MOXIE: Yes.
ME: Wait. What? You mean, you were wearing underwear and they just randomly fell off?
MOXIE: Well, I was wiggling a lot.
ME: So what you’re saying here is that you took your underwear off.
MOXIE: Yes.
ME: That’s okay. I can deal with that. Come here and cuddle.
CASE CLOSED.
My Mom Explains The Real Reason For Embroidery In The 60s
Every once in a while, my mom tells me a story I haven’t heard a million times, and one that’s actually pretty interesting. (That’s not to say her other stories aren’t interesting; they are. Just the first and second time around, not over and over.) Today, she presented this story while we ate Chinese food.
MOM:
Dammit. I thought I’d make it through one meal without getting something on my shirt and, well, oh well. Look. I told Marilyn yesterday…she’s...well, she was my sister-in-law when I was married to your dad. I guess my step-sister-in-law since they were step, but now she’s not anything. Anyway. Yesterday we were laughing about when I was pregnant. This was back in the 60s and I just spilled stuff all the time all over my chest. Then Marilyn would take my shirt and embroider a flower over it. I’d spill. She’d embroider. Over and over. Well, pretty soon, I had a shirt that was covered with flowers. Flowers from my hip and wrapping all up the front of my chest. Some lady said “Oh, I just love your shirt” and I said “Thanks. I made it myself”.
Now I know why embroidery was so popular in the sixties. It wasn’t the drugs or free love. It was because women figured out a way to make clothes last longer when they spilled stuff. It’s fricking brilliant. I now want to learn to embroider.
Thanks, Mom.
I Thought Being An Adult Would Be More Fun
I’ve been in another fit of what Anne Shirley would bemoan “The Depths of Despair”, not to be confused with The Princess Bride’s “The Pit of Despair”. They’re both dramatic places to be but one involves torture by albinos, and the other just involves moaning. And possibly hair dye.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I have a feeling it’s hormones. I mean, I’m not going through THE CHANGE or anything (that’s a reference to menopause and not lycanthropy), I’m just…moody. I just thought….I don’t know….I guess I thought that grown-up life would be different. I thought…I thought I’d have more fun. More friends. More potlucks.
I envisioned my life at forty as something like the Ya Ya Sisterhood or something. You know, hanging out with my girlfriends, wearing vintage swimsuits, drinking margaritas and stuff while our kids run around and our husbands try to feel us up in the kitchen.
But, I don’t have a group of friends, nor do I own a vintage swimsuit, and my kids are at their bio dad’s half the time. Sometimes I get felt up in the kitchen, which is nice, but…it’s just not what I envisioned.
I’ve tried to make friends with different women lately, and I pretty much came off as drunk and desperate, mostly because I was drunk and desperate.
I’ve given up. I’ve given up on asking people over to play games and eat food, of trying to maintain friendships, and I’m realizing that life isn’t like the movies. THAT’S WHY THERE ARE MOVIES.
So there’s that.
Then there’s that I’ve sent out 50 query letters on “Popsicle Toes” and not one agent has asked to see the manuscript. I never heard back from the agent who asked for it back in April. And I’m telling you, this memoir is GOOD. It’s raw and vulnerable and awkward and real, because it’s pretty much me. On paper.
And then I was meeting with a nice writer fellow and having so much fun talking about writing again and critiquing and being critiqued, but he’s moving now, so I put up a somewhat sad and desperate personal ad on Facebook looking for a new writer group, and I got nothing on that too.
I’m like the reverse of Sally Field’s infamous acceptance speech. “No one likes me! No one really likes me!”
Waaaaahhh!!!!
Sometimes I get really sick of living in my own head. I’m very glad that Kealoha likes me and likes hanging out with me. Maybe I can get him to put on a vintage bathing suit and I can pretend we’re girlfriends.
Actually, that’s a horrible idea. I’m now firmly creeped out, which I guess is better than being in the Depths of Despair.
On MasterChef and Macaroons
Kealoha and I were relaxing with a oh-so-not-summer-menu dinner of pierogies with sautéed mushrooms, onions, and bacon and decided to catch up on some MasterChef. The episode included the contestants cooking up a pig head (they didn’t put it on a stake and dance around with it though), then at a wedding for a bride with enormously arched eyebrows, and then the Pressure Test of cooking macaroons. Here is our conversation:
ME: Oh! They’re cooking macaroons! We love macaroons!
KEALOHA: We do?
ME: Hello? Remember Paris? We should eat some macaroons. It’ll remind us of our trip!
KEALOHA: I’ve never had a macaroon in my life!
ME: What are you talking about? Remember last year when we were in Paris and that hotel in Versailles gave us that whole box of macaroons? They were so delicious. Don’t you remember that?
KEALOHA: Yeah. But you ate all of my macaroons. You ate the whole box.
(Pause while I mentally flipped through my memories.)
ME: Ah. That’s right. Well, we should get a box of macaroons and I’ll eat them all and it will be just like Paris all over again.
Vote On My Next Novel
I’m ready to start my next writing project, but I just can’t figure out which one to do. I have several ideas. It’d probably be good to start something especially since I’m trying to find an agent for my memoir and that’s super depressing to say the least. The search for an agent is depressing, not the memoir.
A few years ago I asked you dear readers to choose the book I would write and post as a blovel. The result of that was ‘Tunnel Vision’…which is (I think) one of the best things I’ve ever written. So I thought I’d turn to you again. Can you help an unfocused writer focus?
It’s possible I could post this next piece as a blovel too, if there’s interest.
So. What book would you like me to write…or…which of these would you be most likely to read?
THE CONTENDERS:
1) A sequel to “Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage” called “Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Bad Curry” in which Pepper and her friend attend a dinner party when people start dying. They’re on an island so Pepper must solve the crimes before she’s dead too. It’s sorta like a “And Then There Were None” but with more food and less British stuff.
2) A sequel to “Foodies Rush In” in which the characters from the first book celebrate the holidays. We’ll meet new characters, see multiple layers of disfunction and bad holiday sweaters. This would, hopefully, be a comedy and a feel-good type of book.
3) A suspense/action novel in which a young girl discovers that her chemist father made her resistant to drugs so she’s the only one that can see that the happy world she lives in, isn’t really happy. She goes on an adventure to stop the poisoning and mind-control of her people. Lots of running, explosions, and a little darkness.
So. Help a girl out. Which book should I write? And if you know of an agent who wants a memoir called “Popsicle Toes” that’s in a similar style to “The House on Mango Street” lemme know.
POLL CLOSED
Thank you for voting!
#3 wins with 63% of the vote! Let the writing commence!
!!!!
Mermen!
Kealoha and I stayed in Grand Haven last night. I’m narrating all week long and I thought it would be nice to A) Not have to drive for two hours (round trip) and B) Stay at a hotel. Instead of a 50-minute drive home, I had a ten minute drive to the hotel and Kealoha met me at our room. I’d envisioned a conversation with the desk clerk. Here’s what happened in my brain:
ME: I’m here for the night. Last minute idea.
CLERK: But you don’t have any luggage!
ME (nervously): That’s because, ehm, my, er, husband is coming and he’ll bring the luggage. Yeah. My husband. That’s right.
(In my head I sounded suspicious even to myself.)
CLERK: Oh. Okay. I got you. Your ‘husband’. (wink wink wink)
ME: No! Really! My husband is meeting me at this hotel! With my luggage! I’m not that kind of woman to have a tawdry affair. I’m only tawdry with my husband!
I guess I like drama. Or at least I like envisioning drama. The real conversation went like this:
ME: I’m here for the night. Last minute idea.
CLERK: Credit card, please.
Then Kealoha and I had average burgers in the restaurant and then used the whirpool where my swimsuit immediately filled with air and farted along to the beat of the bubbles in the water. I was afraid that my boobs looked so big that random hungry babies would run after me crying for milk and my soul, but no babies chased me. We saw one baby, but he was more interested in chewing on his fist than my enormous tatas.
I fell asleep at 9, while Kealoha giggled to “Hot Tub Time Machine”. In the morning, we had breakfast and then walked along the pier. It was all foggy and moody and slight creepy. Then out of the darkness we saw something truly horrifying! A sump truck pumping sewage! The smell hit me in the face like an old-timey boxer. Rat bastard. And I noticed that the guy doing the pumping (ahem. Sump-pumping) did this WHILE SMOKING A CIGARETTE. Again, my brain took over as I imagined gigantic green fireballs and me screaming to Kealoha RUNNNNN!!!!
We didn’t run. We turned around and crossed the street.
Then we made our way back down to the water and SPLOOSH!
I saw a merman! A MERMAN! That fucker was huge, jumping out of the water like Greg Louganis in reverse. At least I think it was a Merman. I sorta only saw it out of the corner of my eye.
ME: Jeez! Did you see that Merman?
KEALOHA: (sigh)
ME: Maybe it was a fish.
KEALOHA: Yes. That was a fish.
SPLOOSH! Another ‘fish’ took a leap and splash.
ME: Nature is freaky.
Kealoha held my hand to calm me down and then drove me back to the car. Then I was back in the studio and falling in love and doing naughty things in a cabin, and then winning second place in a holiday window competition.
Just another day of narrating and life in general.